One Dead Seagull (19 page)

‘No.
Y
ou
can
’
t
bloody
go.
Y
ou’re
coming
with
me,’
she
said,
and
started
coughing.

I
stomped
off
to
my
room
and
slammed
the
doo
r
.
W
e gave
each
other
the
silent
treatment
until
Christmas
Eve.

I
came
home
from
Game
Zone at
about two
o’clock
to find
Dad
’
s
ute
in
the
drivewa
y
.

‘
W
ayne!’
Dad
shouted
as
I
pushed
through
the
doo
r
.
They
were
in the
kitchen with
two
empty
bottles
of
champagne,
grinning
at
each
other
like
little
kids.

‘Mer
r
y
Christmas,
mate.
Like
a
glass?
Here
have
a
glass
o
f
champagne
.
Y
ou’l
l
nee
d
it,
’
Da
d
sai
d
stuffin
g
a bubbling
flute
into
my
hand.

I
sipped
at
the
glass
and
nearly
spat
the
stuff
back.
It
was
sucking
my
mouth inside
out.
Carbonated
camel
’
s
piss. Maybe
I
could
mix
some
Milo
with
it
to
take
the
edge
off
.
.
.

‘Sit
here,’
he
said,
and
pulled
out
a
stool
at
the
breakfast
ba
r
.
‘I
have
insurance,
right?
Y
ou
know
what
insurance
is?’

I
nodded.

‘
Y
es?
Good.
I
have
health
insurance,’
he
said
again
and
looked
at
his
hands
on
the
bench.
Mum
had
a
drag
on
her
cigarette
and
nodded,
waiting
for
him
to
continue.
He
sat
like
that
forever
and
Mum
started
laughing.

‘Shut
up,
Sylvie.
Where
was
I?
I
have
health
insurance. My
insurance
company
paid
all
the
hospital
bills
after the accident
and
because
I employed you,
W
orkcover
are
making
a
payout
to
you.
One
hundred
and
four
thousand
dollars.
It
’
s
in
a
trust
and
we
can
only
access
it
to
bu
y
prosthetic
s
an
d
tha
t
sor
t
o
f
thin
g
unti
l
you’re
eighteen.
But
it
’
s
yours,
mate.
Just
like
a
flash-and-where
’
s-
you
r
-grandmothe
r
.
On
e
hundre
d
an
d
fou
r
thousand
dollars,’
he
said
and
slapped
me
on
the
shoulde
r
.

I
drank
my
glass
of
camel
’
s
piss
like
it
was
Coke
and
motioned
for
Dad
to
fill
it
up
again.
‘
T
ell
me
you’re
bullshitting
me
.
.
.’

They
both
shook
their
heads.
So
this
is
what
it
’
s
like
to win
Sale
of
the
Centu
r
y
.
What
a buzz.
Suck
on
that
Phillip
Baxter!

‘
Y
es!’
I
shouted
and
nearly
rocked
off
the
stool.

‘
Y
eah,
hang
on
a
minute mate.
It
’
s in trust
for you, right,
until you’re
eighteen.
That
means
you
can
’
t
use
it until
you’re old
enough
unless
it
’
s
to
pay for
a
prosthetic.’

‘What
’
s a
prosth
.
.
.’ The camel
’
s piss
was working
alread
y
.

‘Prosthetic.
Fake
hand,’
Mum
chimed.

Nah.
Don
’
t
need
a
fake
hand.
I’ve
got
a
hook.
I’ll
just
save
it
all
up
and
when
I’m
eighteen
I’ll
buy
a
shit-hot
car like
a
Porsche
or
maybe
even
a
Subaru. My
mind went wobbly
with
the
possibilities,
so
much
so
that
I
didn
’
t notice
Mum
hugging
me
and
kissing
me
on
the
head.

‘I’m sor
r
y
about
the
other
da
y
,
love. Caught
me
on
a bad
trot.
I’ve
made
arrangements
for you
to
catch
the train back
to Melbourne on Christmas
afternoon.
Of course
you
can
go
with
the
Humes.’

‘I
know
you
only
love
me
for
my
mone
y
.’

She
slapped
me
as
I
got
up—had
to
tell
Den.

I
got
back
to
the
flat
at
about
five,
sta
r
ving
hung
r
y
and
still
buzzing. Mum
was
coming
into
the
lounge
from
the hallwa
y
,
smoothing
her
clothes
down.
She
was
surprised
to see
me
and
unsteady
on
her
feet.

‘Oh,
hello
love,’
she
said
fluffing
up
her
hair
like
she’d just
been
to the toilet. Her
face
was flushed
and
she
fumbled
with,
but
eventually
lit, a
fag.
I
told
her
I
was hung
r
y
and
the
toilet
flushed.
Dad came
out,
fluffing his own
hair
and
Mum
said
the
magic
word:
‘Pizza.’

I
reckon
I’ll
remember
that
afternoon
for
eternit
y
.

Christmas
Day
was
a
stinke
r
.
It
was
thirty
degrees
by
eleven
o’clock
and
Mum
’
s
little
Hyundai
was
as
hot
as
a
chip
vat by
the time
we’d
made
it
to
Shepparton,
even
with
the ai
r
-conditioning
on
flat
out.
Hugs
and
sickly
smiles all around.
Only
Uncle
Don
was
any
fun.

‘Hey
Dickhead,’
he
said
to
me
and
pulled
my
arm
so
I had
to
bend
down
to
where
he
was
sitting.
He
looks
much more
like
an
Aborigine
than
Mum
does.
His
skin
is
darker
and
he
has
brown
eyes
instead
of
Mum
’
s
blue—just
like his
dad.
He
stunk
like
that
greasy
shit
he
uses
to
cake
his
hair
flat
and
hissed
bee
r
-breath
at
me.

‘Silly
bugge
r
.
What
did
you
go
and
do
that
for?’
He grabbed
my
stump
for a
closer
inspection.
‘Cut off a pe
r
fectly
good
hand!
Silly
bugge
r
.’

I
laughed
and
he
flashed
his
gums
at
me.
He
gave
up wearing
his
false
teeth
ages
ago
but
he
always
carries
them in
his
shirt
pocket.
It
was
a
sit-around
sort
of
day and
I
was allowed
to
have
a
couple
of
beers. I
sat
in
the
shade
of
the lemon
tree
with
Don
while
the
barbie
sizzled
and
popped.

‘When
Sylvia
was young
.
.
.
bit younger
than
you
.
.
. maybe
seven
or
eight
.
.
.
the
three
of
us,
me
and
Sylvia and
T
ed,
all
slept
in
the
same
bed.
Anywa
y
,
one
night,
Sylvie
climbs
over
the
top
of
me
in
a
real
hur
r
y
,
right?
I think she
needs
the
dunny
real
bad,
right?
Next
thing
I
hear
this
tinkle,
tinkle
like
she
’
s
having
a
piss,
right?
And
I
think
oh,
she
made
it
to
the
dunn
y
,
right?
Then
the
light flicks
on
and
I
hear
my
old
dad
shouting,
“Sylvia,
what
the bloody
hell
are
you
doing?”
And
Sylvie
says
“Just
going
to
the
toilet,
Dad.”
Still
asleep,
right?
And
she
pissed
all
over
the
chair
in
Mum
and
Dad
’
s
room.
Gawd
it
was
a
funny one,
that
one.’

Uncle
T
ed
and
Auntie
Penny
gave
me
a
book.
The
cover looked
stupid
but
I
flicked
inside
and
there
were
heaps
of swea
r
words.
Maybe
it’ll be
more
interesting
than
I
first thought.
Don
gave
me
a
card
with
twenty
dollars
in
it.
The card
was
one
that
he’d
made himself.
When
he
was working
he
was
an
architect
and
he
still
loved
to
draw
and paint.
The
picture
was
a
blackfella sitting
by
a
smoky
fire
at
the
foot
of
a
huge
wate
r
fall.
The
image
was
mist
y
,
like
a
dream,
and
I
stared
at
it
for
quite
a
while
before
opening it
and
reading:

Dear
W
ayne,

Y
ou
can
do
whatever
you
want
to. Best
wishes,

Uncle
Don

It was the nicest
card.
I
thought it had
the proudest message
of
all
until
I
thanked
Uncle
Don
for
it.

‘
Y
eah,’
he
said.
‘That
’
s
all
right
little
bloke.
Made
the card
myself,
eh?
Not
bad.
Like
I
said
in
the
card
mate,
you can
do
whatever
you
want
with
the
twenty
dollars.’

He
pulled
me
close
and
whispered, ‘Come
down
to
the brothel
with
me
on
Monday
and
that
twenty
dollars
will buy
you
a
head-job.
He,
ha,
ha,
ha.’

Baz,
Ker
r
y
and
Den
came
to
the
station
to
pick
me
up
in Gracie
’
s
little Honda. It was almost dark and Ker
r
y
couldn
’
t believe that
I
had
eve
r
ything
I
needed
in
one
pack,
even
my
sleeping
bag.
I
realised
why
she
thought
it was
a
miracle
when
we
got
back
to
their
place
and
I
saw
their blue
station
wagon.
It
was
loaded
like
a
pregnant
hippo.
The
roof
rack
had
duffel
bags
laced
onto
it
with
octopu
s
strap
s
an
d
th
e
boat—cleane
d
an
d
newly
painted—was
piled
full
as
well.